Personal Blogs

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Every second, your body creates 25 million new cells. In the time it takes to read this sentence, you’ve been renewed in ways you can’t see. Think about that, 25 million new cells and we don't have to think where we will put them, It's all done by design.

And yet—within all this flux, certain brain cells stay with you your entire life. They carry the story of who I am. The people I've met, the times I've laughed and the times I've cried. 

We are, from childhood wonder to present-day wisdom. Isn’t that astonishing? You are at once changing and enduring.

To me, it whispers of a design beyond randomness— a signature from the Creator, who formed us not only for now but for forever. A kind of biological poetry, written in the ink of eternity. It's a no brainer.

“The greatest thing a human soul ever does in this world is to see something, 

and tell what it saw in a plain way.” 

John Ruskin 

I was at the Glasgow art gallery today and found myself returning to an old painting I liked as a teenager — The Poor Being Fed at a Monastery by the 17th-century Dutch artist Thomas Wijck. It hangs there still, mostly unnoticed by the crowds that drift through the gallery, eyes flicking from frame to frame, as if trying to take in the entire history of art before the afternoon coffee break.

The Poor Being Fed at a Monastery | Art UK

The painting doesn’t demand attention. It sits quietly, modest in tone, another “dull Dutch master” to the untrained eye. But there’s something in it that’s always held me — something that once stopped a teenage boy in his tracks and still calls him back decades later.

As I stood studying it again, I noticed how many people passed it by. Most didn’t slow down. It’s easy to miss. The colours are muted, the scene ordinary. But then, that’s the point.

I saw a young man approaching — young enough to still be shaped by moments like these — and I caught his eye just before he moved on. I simply said, “Look at this,” and pointed to a detail I had just been admiring: the figures at the foot of the monastery steps.

Wijck’s attention to detail is striking. The monks, serene and composed, are calmly giving out bread. The poor gather in varied postures — some with uplifted faces, others bent low, a legless man who pushes himself around in a tin bath — each figure rendered with a humanity that stops short of sentimentality. There’s gratitude, certainly. But there’s also fatigue. Hesitation. Even something like shame. The dignity of the recipients is not diminished by their need — and the act of giving, while central, is not made heroic.

The young man leaned in, intrigued. I said no more and walked on. I don’t know what he saw in it. Maybe nothing. Maybe something he’ll remember in a few years when life brings him closer to the quiet themes in that painting: hunger, humility, and the fragile grace of being cared for.

I’m not sharing this to paint myself as someone wise or perceptive. If anything, it was the painting that did the work.  I just happened to notice it — and then, for a brief second, helped someone else notice it too.

That’s what I keep thinking about. How much there is to see when we slow down. How much we miss when we don’t. In a world of fast answers and glowing screens, noticing — really noticing — might be one of the most human things left to do.

"Religious compromise may begin not with a doctrinal shift, 

but with a subtle silence—when we know what’s true but say nothing."

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Dear Dietrich,

I never met you, and yet I feel as though I know you. Not through textbooks or dusty archives, but through the fire in your words, the clarity of your convictions, and the quiet strength of your example. Your life speaks into mine like a still small voice, reminding me of what it means to truly follow Christ.

You lived in a time of great darkness. The rise of Nazi Germany brought out both the best and the worst in humanity. What haunts me still is how many religious leaders, men with supposed spiritual authority, bowed before that darkness. They compromised. They colluded. They became silent when silence was betrayal.

But you did not.

You stood when others cowered. You spoke when others chose polite evasion. You loved—not as sentiment, but as sacrifice. And for that, you paid the ultimate price. You became, to me, a kind of Christian Schindler—a man who could not remain untouched while evil advanced. A man who, in the imitation of Christ, laid down his life for others.

Many religious groups mirror the compromise of your time—aligning with power, silencing dissent, and forgetting that to love God is to love people, not institutions or religious organisations who were self-sparing. I watched as loyalty to the organisation was placed above compassion, above conscience, even above Christ.

So, I read your words with a sense of deep kinship. You remind me that true Christianity is not about comfort or conformity. It is a call to courage, a summons to stand even when the cost is everything. You taught that grace is not cheap, and that discipleship demands more than attendance or appearance—it requires a cross.

What amazes me is not only your intellect, your theological brilliance, or your eloquence. It’s your heart. You felt the suffering of others. You wept for the Jewish people, your fellow human beings, your brothers and sisters in God’s image. You saw them not as "others" but as neighbours—and ultimately, friends worth dying for.

I wonder what you would say to us today, in our age of noise and division, where the Church is often caught between silence and slogans. Would you challenge us as you challenged your own generation—to confess Christ not merely with our lips, but with our lives?

Your legacy isn't just in what you wrote—though Letters and Papers from Prison remain a profound gift. It’s in what you chose. You chose love over hate. Truth over safety. Christ over compromise. And in an age where love for God and Christ will be tested in forthcoming times, your stance is inspiring.

And for that, I honour you. I thank God for your life.

With respect and gratitude,

Jim

Do not be conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind. 

Then you will be able to test and approve what is the good, pleasing, and perfect will of God.

 — Romans 12:2 (BSB).

"We all want to be loved; failing that, admired…We want to evoke some sort of sentiment. The soul shudders before oblivion and seeks connection at any price."

 — August Strindberg

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It’s a valid and searching question to ask oneself in this present society where the “I” stands erect as a Terracotta Warrior: Am I virtue signalling? Is the question. The very act of asking it risks becoming a kind of virtue signal itself—"Look how self-aware I am." 

And yet I ask myself in earnest.

When I write about empathy, kindness, gratitude, or faith, am I doing it to reflect what I believe to be good and true? Or am I polishing a self-image, hoping others will see me as thoughtful, moral, or enlightened? It’s easy to drift into that territory without noticing—especially in an age where sharing one’s thoughts with the world has become so effortless.

There is a tension here, and it’s worth acknowledging. We are all, to some extent, social creatures, shaped by others’ perceptions. But what concerns me is when the performance of goodness eclipses the substance of it. Jesus had a word for this—hypocrisy. Not in the modern sense of failing to live up to one’s ideals, but in the ancient sense of wearing a mask, like an actor on a stage.

The Pharisees, for all their public piety, were called out not because they failed to do good, but because they did good to be seen doing it. The applause of men had become their reward. I fear the same danger in myself.

Sometimes I write about the stranger who paid for my meal, the act of leaving a legacy for my grandchildren, or the quiet grief of losing a father at an early age, or simple anecdotes about being human. Sure, I like to be acknowledged, we all do. That’s what it means to be human. I do so not to impress anyone, but because these things pierce me and the fact that I have readers who visit regularly, indicates that you share similar experiences. They remind me I am human, and that other humans are carrying burdens I will never fully understand. But even as I write, I wonder—Am I telling this story to share the weight of the world, or to carry it like a badge?

Perhaps the difference lies in the motive—and in the fruit. Virtue signalling seeks affirmation. True virtue seeks transformation.

When I look at Jesus, I see someone who never signalled virtue. He simply lived it. Quietly, often in the margins, with no need for recognition. He didn't post his miracles. He told people not to tell others. He wept, he walked, he withdrew. And he died with few to witness it.

So I return to this question not as a condemnation, but as a check-in. Am I writing from the wellspring of grace—or from a desire to be admired? Am I confessing or performing?

To be human is to live in that tension. It is like navigating a river where currents are pulling you in two directions. But I hope, with each word, I am moving a little more toward the truth and a little further away from the mask.

“Two men went up to the temple to pray. One was a Pharisee and the other a tax collector. The Pharisee stood by himself and prayed, ‘God, I thank You that I am not like other men—swindlers, evildoers, adulterers—or even like this tax collector. I fast twice a week and pay tithes of all that I acquire.’

But the tax collector stood at a distance, unwilling even to lift up his eyes to heaven. Instead, he beat his breast and said, ‘God, have mercy on me, a sinner!’ I tell you, this man, rather than the Pharisee, went home justified. For everyone who exalts himself will be humbled, but the one who humbles himself will be exalted.”

"No act of kindness, no matter how small, is ever wasted.”
   — Aesop

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George and his wife were driving home from Skye, weaving their way through the Highlands on a golden summer’s day. They stopped in Fort William to fill up the car, stretch their legs, and treat themselves to a Magnum each. The shop only sold them in packs of three.

On their way back to the pump, George noticed a man at the next bay, filling up a bulky SUV. On a gentle whim, George held out the spare ice cream.

          "Fancy a Magnum?" he asked.

The man looked startled, then deeply moved. “Really? That’s... incredibly kind of you,” he said, taking it like a small treasure. “You’ve no idea what that means today.”

George just smiled and waved it off. "It’s only a spare Magnum."

But the man stood there, touched to his core — and George carried that look home with him.

Later that weekend, George told his three young grandchildren about the moment, not expecting much. But they were all ears and wide eyed like meercats.

Two weeks later when they were staying over, as George tucked them into bed, he asked the usual question:  

           “What story shall it be tonight?”

          “Where the wild things are,” said the eldest.

          “The tiger who came to tea,” said the middle one.

But the youngest, with a finger to his lip and a quiet seriousness, said:

          “Grandad, can you tell us the story about the man who gave you a Magnum?”

George smiled; heart full. A small act, remembered like a fairy tale.

“I see all this beauty and I don’t have much longer to live, but I want to stay.” 

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I live in Scotland, and I know it’s rude to ask, but what age are you? Not that I’m prying —— goodness, I run away from prying people. Anyway, I’m just wondering if you are at this stage in life where you wonder, what’s it all about? Life, I mean. Why are we here? Are we just products of an aimless evolution and were just dancing to our DNA?

Well, you may believe that, but is that something you reasoned into or something you just accept because everyone else does? Hmm!  That’s no way to understand why we are here.

Let’s look at the evidence: We live on a beautiful planet. To be honest, it’s man that’s ruining it. Science doesn’t know who or what put the universe here, and yet, our planet is perfect for human habitation. We see beauty in flowers, animals, the microcosm, and the macrocosm. We see all this in colour. We love poetry, music, sport, dancing and just sitting in a summer evening with that hygge feeling as we sit watching a sundown with family and friends.

But then, we grow old, and wonder, why all this? Will it all be over for me soon. Yes, and torschlusspanik kicks in; that feeling that the doors are closing in on you. And you ask yourself again, what’s it all about?

This is where it all gets contradictory. You see, if evolution were true, we wouldn’t ask these questions. We would just say hatches, matches, and despatches, concluding that we are here to be born, mate, keep the line going and then depart. But no, we want to live forever. No. you don't believe that? Okay, when would you like to die? Tomorrow, next week, next year. No, we want to hold on to life as long as we can.

My sister was out one day and observed an old man crying as he looked at the landscape.

“Are you okay?” my sister asked.

“I see all this beauty and I don’t have much longer to live, but I want to stay.” He answered.

The old man felt like that because we have been programmed from birth to have life indefinite in our heart. Look at Ecclesiastes 3:11,

“He has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart…” (NIV)

So, what about you and me? Is God going to give us that feeling and not open the door for us in some way?

Jesus spoke to a man when they both were dying, the man asked for Jesus to remember him when he got into his Kingdom. Look what Jesus said,

“Truly I tell you, today you will be with me in paradise.” Luke 23:43 (NIV).

This tells us where we can go, but not why we are here, right? Okay, here is my theory. Could it be that we are born here as a test?  You see there is this story in the Book of Job where Satan said to God that man only serves God for what he can get. Job chapter 1.

Let’s just stop there to take this all in. Satan has claimed that we would serve God for selfish gain only. I think Satan has a point, don’t you? But wait, that may be true of some, but not all. There are many people out there that would give their life to God and Jesus.

But there’s another factor here. 

God permitted Satan to test Job. So, there’s no doubt who’s in power here. Rather, it’s a moral issue. A moral issue that takes humankind’s lifetime to settle.

Let’s illustrate. If I were to say to you “I’m more honest than you. “How do we settle that? It would take our lifetime. And so it goes with God putting us here. We are here to be tested as to whether we are willing to side with God or Satan on this issue regarding man being selfish or selfless towards God. Look,

“For the eyes of the LORD range throughout the earth to strengthen those whose hearts are fully committed to him.” 2 Chronicles 16: 9 (NIV).

Scripture quotations taken from The Holy Bible, New International Version® NIV®
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Used with permission. All rights reserved worldwide.

"If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world."

 C.S. Lewis

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My wife and I have tickets for the André Rieu  concert in Glasgow tonight. I have been watching his concerts online and observed the great deal of joy that folk get from the music.

Music, much like a masterfully crafted poem, has a unique ability to transport us to places both vivid and vague, tethering our emotions to rhythms and melodies that echo through time and space. When I listen to music, especially classical pieces, I am transported far beyond my immediate surroundings. The sounds become landscapes, each note painting a vivid scene before my very eyes.

Take, for instance, Edvard Grieg’s "Morning." As the first few bars unfold, I envision a sunrise not just anywhere, but cascading over the lush, verdant pastures of Scotland—a place I hold dear. It’s a serene, almost sacred experience, as if the light itself is harmonizing with Grieg’s intentions, his notes the colours of dawn stretching across the horizon.

Contrast this with "Highland Cathedral," played on the haunting timbre of bagpipes. Here, the music encapsulates a dark winter evening in Glasgow, the soundscape morphing into the cold, brisk air that bites at exposed skin, the quiet solitude of a city holding its breath under the weight of the night sky. This music does not just speak; it evokes, conjures, and resurrects.

This auditory journey is deeply personal, reflecting my own narratives and memories. Each piece of music is like a poem whose meaning is reshaped by the listener's own experiences and emotions. What the composer intended and what I perceive are points on a triangle, with the third point being the unique interplay of my own inner life and the external piece.

However, not all musical journeys are without their interruptions. Ludovico Einaudi’s "Beautiful Night" and the lullaby "Suo Gan" carry me towards an ethereal realm, a place of beauty and tranquillity that feels just within reach. Yet, just as I am about to embrace this world fully, my mind, as if intimidated by the vastness of its own creation, abruptly pulls down the shutters. This sensation, akin to the German concept of Sehnsucht, reflects an intense yearning for something indescribably distant and unattainable, a place or experience that is deeply desired yet painfully out of reach.

This longing is bittersweet, filled with both the joy of near attainment and the sorrow of realization that some desires remain just beyond our grasp. It poses a profound question: when faced with the infinite, with existential mysteries that music so often touches upon, do we resign ourselves to defeat, or is there something more?

C.S. Lewis once suggested that our experiences of profound joy are but the scent of a flower we have not found, the echo of a tune we have not heard, and news from a country we have never visited. Perhaps, then, these moments of musical transportation do not merely escape but signposts, suggesting that our yearning for something beyond—this Sehnsucht—is not a mere emotional cul-de-sac but a hint of our destiny in another world.

So, where do we go from here? Do we accept these musical and existential journeys as fleeting moments of escape or recognize them as echoes of a deeper call to something beyond our earthly experiences? As I ponder this, I invite you, the reader, to listen closely not just to the music but to the responses it awakens within you. Maybe, just maybe, these sounds that resonate with our souls are inviting us to glimpse not just what is, but what might be, in a world yet unseen.

"If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world."

This quote from Mere Christianity suggests that earthly experiences do not fully satisfy our deepest longings, which C.S  Lewis interprets as evidence of our ultimate destiny beyond the physical realm.

            There's something about

            A blue bench

            With daffodils 

            Facing east

            Anticipating sunrise

            And waves gently slapping

            Ancient rocks.